And, Usually, He's the One Who GIVES Me a Headache
by Cumberbatch Critter
Summary: A migraine is never fun.


**And, Usually, He's the One Who GIVES Me a Headache**

The headache had been borderline uncomfortable.

He had somehow dropped off to sleep, slumped against the back of the couch. He didn't even know how he had been able to sleep with the pain. He had thought that rest would have been beneficial, but it seemed not so; he had just woken up and the pain was still so strong that he almost felt like he could vomit.

It was horrible.

He blinked his eyes open, regretting it, as it was daylight and the sunlight streaming in the windows hurt his eyes. Thankfully, his vision was back to normal.

_Back_ to normal because before he had fallen asleep, there had been a sort of flickering shape in his vision. The medical term was a scintillating scotoma. John had dubbed it a royal pain in the arse. He had been quite eager to close his eyes and try to ignore that.

So, thankfully, his vision was back to normal, albeit if he was still photophobic.

A quick glance at the clock told him he'd been asleep for a half hour. Migraines could last from, as a rough estimate, four hours to several days. John usually didn't get migraines- it was a rare phenomenon, graciously- so he couldn't gauge how long this migraine might last. Hopefully, on the short end of the scale.

"You're feeling unwell."

The voice from across the room was making a statement, but there was a level of unassurance to the tone.

John raised his head slightly and peered across the room to meet the gaze of Sherlock Holmes.

"Yes," John rasped, pressing his fingers to his right temple again. "Got a migraine."

"How long has it been?"

John closed his eyes again, shivering slightly at a nasty throb of pain. "I fell asleep during the aura phase. Been asleep a half hour."

"So you've just entered the pain phase."

"Yes," John said, blinking his eyes open again.

"The pain phase could last from a handful of hours to several days."

"I know," he said bitterly, grabbing a nearby blanket and drawing it close to him. "I'm a doctor."

"Tea?"

John looked back to Sherlock in surprise. "What?"

"I asked you if you'd like to have some tea."

"I thought that's what you were insinuating, but I found it hard to believe since you never make tea..." John snuggled further into the blanket, stretching his legs out on the couch. "Tea would be lovely, thanks."

Sherlock muttered something that was lost in the distance between them, but footsteps announced that the detective was walking away. John wasn't about to complain; he'd take the offer for a cuppa anytime, if it was coming from Sherlock. Best to savour the favour while he could.

He closed his eyes and resorted to tucking his face under the blanket for more cover from the light. He ought to have gone upstairs to his bedroom, closed the curtains, and tried to fall asleep again, but the thought of all the moving that required made his head pound particularly painfully.

So, he settled for pulling the blankets over his head and massaging his temple and hoping that the pain would diminish, if only for a little bit.

"You can't be cold."

That was the statement that drew him out of his pain-hazed state a few minutes later. He fumbled with the blanket and peered up at Sherlock, blinking slowly.

"No. No, not really, I'm just-"

"Seeking comfort while you're ill," Sherlock finished blandly. "Right. Tea."

John removed his arms from the blanket and gratefully took the warm teacup from Sherlock's hand. "Thanks." He curled his fingers around the cup, taking a drink. He sighed quietly at the warmth resonating from the sip, closing his eyes again. "That's good," he muttered appreciatively, keeping his eyes closed.

It took him a few seconds to work out that Sherlock was still hovering next to the couch. John met the keen gaze on him, realizing that Sherlock had his 'interested' face on.

"What?" he muttered, frowning over the teacup.

"Which side of your head hurts?"

"The right side." John warily looked at him. "Why?"

"Do you trust me?"

"No," John replied automatically.

Sherlock gave him a disgruntled look. "Tasteless, John."

John shrugged a shoulder, taking another drink of his tea. "Why?"

Before he had time to even look back at Sherlock, there were suddenly warm fingers splaying across his scalp. He flinched out of surprise, nearly spilling tea all down his front and being not quite able to repress the groan from the pain that came with movement. "What- What are you doing?" he breathed, carefully shooting Sherlock a weak glare.

Sherlock looked annoyed, that look that was usually generated when someone said or did something stupid. "Really, John. I'm just trying to help."

John watched him warily but didn't move as Sherlock once again carded his fingers through John's hair.

"It's actually pseudoscience, if you will," Sherlock stated conversationally, his fingers gently brushing against John's scalp. "I'm sure you've heard of pressure points and acupuncture relieving pain. Not," he said quickly as John tensed again, "that I find myself with the urge to practice acupuncture in the near future, so do please relax."

It was extremely awkward, John reasoned, but there was also something exceedingly relaxing about it.

His breath left him in a long, low sigh when Sherlock hit a particularly sore spot, his nimble fingers working in small circles to chase away the pain. John slumped a little lower on the couch and closed his eyes.

"Is it helping?" Sherlock's tone was still conversational, although there was the slightest hint of annoyance to it. John couldn't fathom why Sherlock would be annoyed, unless he thought this was a waste of time. Which didn't seem to add up, because he had initiated it. Perhaps it was simply because he couldn't read John's emotions at the moment.

"It's good," he replied shortly.

Sherlock gave a noncommental noise in return. His fingers worked those small, relaxing circles throughout his scalp, fingers splaying towards his forehead, his temples, down his neck. He shivered involuntarily when Sherlock's fingers brushed his neck.

"Tension," Sherlock said, as if that were an explanation enough. "You need to relax." There was a slight pause before Sherlock's fingers nestled against his neck, his shoulders, slowly working away at the tension.

It was definitely awkward. But if he closed his eyes and _really_ didn't think about it, he could forget that his flatmate was giving him a massage and he could really _relax_.

He found himself dropping off to sleep just as Sherlock's fingers, which had found their way back to his scalp, left. He forced his eyes open, looking tiredly towards Sherlock.

"Better?" Sherlock asked. The keen look was still in his eyes, the interested look on his face. It was clearly an experiment, but John didn't mind this one.

"Yes..." he murmured, struggling to keep his eyes open. "Better."

Sherlock inspected him for a moment longer before nodding. "Good." He turned away, striding to the window. "Now that your headache's gone, I can finally play my violin."

John gave a halfhearted smile; of course it turned out that Sherlock only did it for himself. It was always that way.

But, as the gentle music of something low and melodious and calming filled the air, John found that he really didn't mind.

* * *

**My really nasty headache made me write this. The interesting thing is, I just realized my headache is gone [or, at least, diminished]. Thanks, Sherlock?**

**I would love to hear your thoughts. I personally like this one... Thanks for reading!**


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